


First Meeting

by ElfFromDenerim



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Corpses, F/M, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 03:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15161153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfFromDenerim/pseuds/ElfFromDenerim
Summary: After witnessing the magic ritual that turns her into a Watcher, Nya stumbles through the Dyrwoodan countryside into Gilded Vale, hoping to find an expert on souls. Receiving instead the vague threat of joining the other corpses in the hanging tree, she heads for the local inn hoping to find, at best, a night's sleep.What she finds instead is a tussle between three angry locals and a hooded foreigner.(A brief fic about how I imagine my wild orlan Watcher Nya met elven wizard Aloth.)





	First Meeting

Nya felt groggy and fatigued as she staggered along the Dyroodan countryside. She felt her malaise break, but with it left a kind of deep exhaustion from the depths of her soul. Her auburn fur felt caked with the dried cold sweat that had secreted from her affliction, and her limbs felt weak and shaky as she shambled away from the Cilant Lîs.

Those hooded figures, that ancient machine… that grandmaster with the headdress…

She choked back a sob. Something deep in the recesses of her soul recognized him, like an acquaintance of a past life, and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Something horrible, painful, confused, and lonely lingered in there; something she could not remember if she tried, but something she could not shake from the corners of her mind either…

She didn’t dare stop. Didn’t dare make camp or try to sleep anywhere near that horrible ruin. First Glanfathan raiders, then the horrific slaughter of her entire caravan; that bîaŵac that killed the caravan master (who had been so kind to her throughout their entire journey, and used his last breath to save her), then those death traps and monsters in those ruins, then those hooded figures and that machine; that second bîaŵac, the deaths of Calisca and Heodan…

The deaths of Calisca and Heodan.

She stumbled and leaned fatigued against a tree, and pounded the bark impotently with her fist.

She had tried so hard to save them! And for what? She’d barely managed to distract the Glanfathan with words long enough to get Heodan back, though with a severe gash. She’d barely managed to save him from getting dragged into the bîaŵac by that spiteful Glanfathan that had pretended to be dead. She’d barely managed to convince Calisca not to run off into that death trap of those tunnels by convincing Heodan that they would soon rest, but not follow through by coaxing him “just a little further… just a little further… we’re almost out of here… just a little further still…” until they made it out of the uins, and then that!

Nya had never felt so alone. She was a wild orlan from a small tribe in the Ixamitl Plains. They were descended from the “original” wild orlans and wood elves of Eir Glanfath, before the empires invaded from across the sea, and threw many orlans into cages and chains. Her people had been driven northeastward, further and further over the generations, as Eir Glanfath had gotten pushed back into what was now the The Vailian Republics, the Dyrwood, and Readceras.

She’d always been part of a tight-knit clan that looked out for each other, and then part of a large caravan where everyone relied on each other to survive. Sure, she’d spent most of her life hunting game and gathering edible foliage under the tall golden grass that sang like rain when the wind blew through it. Grass tall enough for an orlan to stay hidden by crouching, but tall enough to see over by standing on their toes. However, she’s always been close to home, and her survival skills ensured she always knew where home was. She always had a group of people she knew and relied on nearby, waiting to welcome and accept her as she came back from the wilds.

Now, she had no one.

Cadpig nudged her unhappily, and she apologized, hugging him around the neck. He squealed happily.

She forced herself to walk and walk and walk, as the sun rose and circled the sky and set again. She was so tired she felt her legs shamble and stumble over rocks, mud, and foliage. Her wild boar was also tired (they shared a soul, after all—that was the only thing that saved him from the bîaŵac), and looked up at her worriedly from time to time.

She was in a strange land, filled with strange creatures and foliage and landscapes she did not recognize. She was weak, sick, and scared. Worst of all from the corners of her eyes she saw ghostly visages wandering in and out of plain sight. She saw what looked like ghostly visages walking in and out of her peripheral vision. She could hear the whispers of voices she could _almost_ , but not quite, make out. All around her she felt that she could sense (smell? Hear? What?) or feel the emotions of living things around her.

If she could just press on, through the mud and dung and farms, and make it to Gilded Vale, everything would be better...

-

Coming to Gilded Vale had not made it better. She had thought a town filled with people ready to take in new settlers would put her mind at ease. There she could find an inn to rest, resupply, and ask for directions to the nearest expert on souls. 

Instead, she had arrived in the dead of night, where overhead clouds blocked out the moon and stars. She was greeted to fallow and rock-strewn fields, a small mudhole filled with shambling houses, the putrid stench of raw sewage, the fetid stench of decomposing corpses, both old and new—

And then she stumbled upon a gnarled old tree in the town square, hung with some twenty corpses.

Her blood froze, but she barely had a moment to gawk when the corpse-pale, rat-faced, oily-voiced magistrate approached her. His information for her had been… not reassuring, but not altogether unsurprising. With her luck, _of course_ things had gone wrong. 

_Of course_ the local lord rescinded his offer to give land and money to new settlers. (Not that she wanted the land anyway, but it would help in these times!) _Of course_ the local lord was having problems with his expectant wife and unborn child. _Of course_ the bell tolled doom for the delivery. _Of course_ some horrible Hollowborn affliction (whatever that was) plagued the country and Lord Raedric (she hated him already) desperately sought experts to solve it and executed them just as quickly. _Of course_ the one expert on souls who could help Nya got hung shortly before she arrived in this miserable cesspit of a town. _Of course_ \--

Nya shook her head and felt her ears flap. The less she thought about it, the better. 

She just wanted to get to the inn and sleep this horrible nightmare away. Even if it didn’t get her any closer to finding that expert on souls, wherever one might be, at least she’d be better rested, and have more energy to get out of here before that rat-faced magistrate made good on his implied threat to have her join those corpses on the tree—

She saw four people gathered by the door of the inn. Their raised voices and chopping gestures suggested an argument reaching its climax. 

The first figure raised his hands for calm. His face was partially obscured by a hood, but his height and stature suggested an elf.

Nya stopped and gazed in a kind of vague wonder. She’d seen elves in the caravan on her way from the Ixamitl Plains. She hadn't encountered many elves growing up (since Ixamitl consisted mostly of orlans and savanna folk), but she’d always heard they’d been friendly to her kind, the wild orlans, and she was eager to get a closer look.

“I meant no offense,” the hooded elf said in a voice that was smooth as rain, “Let’s put this matter to rest over a round, shall we? My treat?”

Nya froze in her tracks. His face (what little she could see under the hood) was handsome, and his accent was as melodious as his voice. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath died in her throat. She would have given anyone with that face and that voice anything.

But the others, two men and an elven woman, didn’t look convinced.

The woman crossed her arms. In a gravelly voice (that seemed all the worse because of the melodic cadence of the hooded elf) she snarled, “Hoping to sooth our pride with a few Aedyran coppers, eh?” She spat at his feet. “We don’t need your coin!”

Nya frowned. Impulsively, she stepped into the inn’s lantern light. “Everyone calm down. Whatever this is about, I’m sure it’s an overreaction.”

One of the other men pointed to the hooded elf. His eyes were red from drink, but his gaze was focused. In the same gravely tone, he slurred, “Mocking us even while he shelters in our village. Just goes to show you what these fancy Aedyre manners are worth. We don’t take to that kind of treatment. Not from foreigners, and especially not from Aedyrans.”

‘And who started that kind of treatment?’ Nya wanted to ask, getting a strong suspicion that they’d heckled him first, and whatever rude thing they think he said had been in self-defense… or retaliation.

Instead, she flinched as the second man thrust his chin at the elf. His breath reeked of sour ale. “Go on. Say it again. I’m itching for an excuse.”

Suddenly, the hooded elf burst out in a new accent:

_”Fye, you’re itching for the kindling touch of your sister, ye coxfither!”_

Nya’s eyes widened. _What?!_

A collect cry of outrage rose from the three locals.

The second man snarled, “I’ll cut that barrel-licking tongue out of your head!”

Horror and shock painted themselves across the elven man’s features in broad, hasty strokes. “This is a misunderstanding! I didn’t say…” He frowned and swallowed, “… whatever it is you think I said.”

He planted his feet. Something surly and raw flickered through his eyes. “We’ve nye quarrel.”

This guy was nuts. Obviously nuts. He was either a dissident—a trouble-maker who liked to go around stirring tempers and then hiding behind an innocent façade, or… Maybe he had a split personality that liked to cause trouble? Either way, Nya was intrigued. She had to get to know him.

The elven woman drew a blade. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she snarled.

Nya’s heart quickened. She had to do something before a full-blown fight broke out. In a vain attempt to sooth tempers, she held out her purse and said, “This is unnecessary. Wouldn’t you rather be inside drinking than out here arguing?” It was worth a shot. She knew how much these rustic rubbish types loved drinking.

“We don’t need your charity either, foreigner.”

Nya sighed, and put her purse away. It was worth a shot.

Then she half-yelped when she realized they were all squinting at her through red, bleary eyes. “Sounds suspiciously like you’re defending him.”

“That’s because I a—ahh!” she yelped and reflexively whipped out her bow when they suddenly drew their weapons and attacked.

The first man lunged at the hooded elf, while the second man and the woman charged Nya. 

She snapped her fingers and pointed at the empty space between them. “Caddy, defense!”

Cadpig squealed and lunged in front of her, waving his tusks threateningly in front of the locals. He wasn’t as big as other wild boars his age (in fact, “cadpig” was a slang term where she came from for pigs that were the runt of the litter), but he was still a threatening size, with tusks as long as a man’s femur. It hurt like the devil to have a boar’s tusks plunged into you, and their hooked shape made it easy to scoop and fling a man’s viscera right out of his torso. She’d seen it before. This gave the locals pause too, and they grunted and gnashed their teeth as they tried to figure out how to strike at him without letting his tusks get to close.

Meanwhile, Nya could see that the first man—taller and twice as burly as the hooded elf—was trying to cut him with a knife. The hooded elf’s movements were smooth and graceful, and he parried almost expertly. (For a wild moment, she could see a rapier and stiletto looped on the belt of his fine leather armor. Fancy weapons.) But still, if he did manage to land a hit… 

Protectively, Nya drew an arrow and loosed a wounding shot right between the man’s shoulder blades. It struck true, and he grunted and fell (first on his knees, then on his side) before the hooded elf.

“Ha! Got ‘im!” she grinned.

With that out of the way, she turned her attention at the other two ruffians daring to raise a blade at her pig. With their backs to him, the hooded elf quickly rushed forward and drew a rod and spellbook. A wizard. (She’d seen many entering and leaving the libraries, academies, and philosophical… brainy places from where she was from. The caravaners told her Ixamitl was said to be one of the greatest centers for philosophy and academic learning in the world. Not that she had ever experienced it. She had always been in the grassy outskirts, chased away by rocks and threats when she drew too close. Too focused on surviving the seasons to give much thought to study.

Judging by his hood and dodgy demeanor, she had taken him for a rogue, or a dissident. And any thought she might have had that he would take her assistance and run was quashed when the elf returned the favor by helping her pick off the last of them. He finished off the second man with a spell chanted in an ancient or foreign language (Nya knew not what) after Cadpig gored him a bit, while Nya nailed the elven woman right in the eye with a well-aimed arrow.

Aedyran coppers, indeed!

‘Should have taken that ale,’ Nya thought ruefully as the last of the attackers fell, and Cadpig trotted back to her, rubbing his bloody tusk against the dirt and muck.

Suddenly her ears twitched as she noticed the hooded elf turn to her, the tension almost gone from his smooth face.

She drew in a deep breath. He was even more handsome up close, and for once she was lost for words.

“Not quite how I’d hoped to get to know the neighbors,” he said pleasantly. “Thank you for that timely assistance with that… awkward situation.”

Despite herself, or perhaps because of it, she found herself grinning and cocking her head. “You mean for slaughtering them? You’re welcome!”

He gave her a quick smile. “Well. That is one way of putting it.”

His brief smile was a victory for her fluttering heart.

He shifted, giving her a brief moment to observe him.

He straightened his hood, and she noted the remains of fraying embroidery on his gloves. His boots were caked with the mud of many months travel, but the leatherwork beneath it was sturdy and fine. 

“I suppose introductions are in order after that little fiasco,” he made a slight flare of the hand and nod of the head as he formally introduced himself. “Aloth Corfiser, at your service.”

“I’m Nya,” she wanted to say.

But, still either riled up from the fight, for flustered from… the fight, she found that introduction wholly inadequate after the little stunt he pulled from the attackers.

In a fit of passion, she found herself exclaiming, “You’d better have more to say for yourself than that!”

She’d meant it to sound exasperated, but, judging from his reaction, she realized it came out a little too aggressive.

He held up his hands. “Please, I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

She meant how could he start that fight _at all_ , what with him acting like he didn’t want to fight one second and sparking outrage the next!

Before she could say so, he continued in that polite, formal way of his, “I’m a wizard by training and an adventurer by necessity. I was born in the Cythwood, part of the mainland of the Aedyre Empire. Both of my parents served the nobility, which afforded me an education for which I’m grateful. However, there were no open positions in those houses, and so I decided to seek new means in a new land.”

Sounded like Heodan. Nya felt a pang of grief and guilt as she thought of that Aedyran merchant who similarly came here, hoping to find new means and a new land after his brothers inherited the family business. She felt her ears droop and her head lower over her failure to keep him alive.

“And, where exactly is it that you hail from?” Aloth asked. 

“Ixamitl,” she squeaked. “I’m from the Ixamitl Plains.”

That’s what the locals around here called it, right? Those that spoke the Aedyre tongue? (That’s what Calisca called it on the road, anyway.)

“Ixamitl! I thought your accent sounded familiar,” he said.

Nya could feel a blush creeping on her face. How could a simple observation about her accent seem so forward, so familiar?

“And how exactly did you come to be here?” Aloth asked.

Flustered, Nya could think of nothing to say but the plain truth—er, most of it. “I was traveling with a caravan, but we were separated near some ruins.”

‘Separated' sounded better than ‘They were slaughtered horrifically by Glanfathan raiders while I illegally fled inside some ruins from a biowac—which ended up killing my last two surviving companions instead. A jolly good time, really.’

Never the less, her attempt to downplay her traumatic recent past still managed to impress her new acquaintance.

“Engwithan ruins?!” Aloth’s eyebrows disappeared into his hood. “Those can be dangerous places at the best of times… which these are not. Half the locals would arrest you for trespassing and the rest would kill you outright.”

‘Don’t I know it!’ Nya thought.

She then flinched and leaned back as he leaned closer. “I’m curious. What exactly did you find there?”

Now his questions sounded insidious, prying… like he knew more than she did and was looking for a specific answer. Did he know something about those ruins? Those weird symbols? That elven statue? (Probably not.) Those hooded figures, that weird machine…?

Nya considered lying, or refusing to answer. 

But he had been kind to her so far, which was more than she could say of these locals. It was especially something she needed in this time when she felt scared and alone. Her clan had kicked her out and her caravan was slaughtered; she had no one.

Also, he was not as good of a liar as he thought. Whatever he knew that she didn’t, she could find no malice or ill-intent behind his attentive eyes.

She decided to take a leap of faith and trust him.

“Several hooded figures operating a strange machine,” she said truthfully.

Aloth goggled her silently, apparently assessing her earnestness. Finally, he gave her a clipped, awkward laugh. “You do manage to find yourself in rather interesting predicaments.”

Nya frowned. “What are you doing in Gilded Vale?” 

“An excellent question.” He folded his arms, looking toward the center of the town. “I came looking for fresh air and cheap land. Instead, the magistrate gave me directions to the inn and a story about the local lord’s expectant wife.” He cocked his head, and looked at her. “But I take it that’s a familiar tale.”

She made a wry face and nodded. So, it’d really been going on that long?

“And you?” he asked.

Ah, so they were still sizing each other up. Again, she considered being curt or refusing to respond, but she’d decided to trust him this long.

“I’ve been experiencing strange things of late,” she said truthfully, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “I’m looking for an expert on souls.”

His eyes flickered as he looked her up and down. “Indeed? The local lord has searched far and wide for similar specialists. He has rid himself of them almost as desperately.” He nodded at the gnarled old tree at the center of the town.

Nya sighed wistfully, spying the dozen or more hanging bodies. Her sharp cat’s eyes quickly singled out the dwarven woman that rat-faced magistrate had nodded toward when she first came into town. An animancer, eh? A specialize, huh? If only Nya had gotten here sooner, or the local lord had been patient a little longer. If only the dwarven woman were still alive, and could give her a little guidance... 

Her orlan ear twitched and she found Aloth’s darting glance take in the tumble-down buildings and the fallow, rock-strewn fields. “I suggest that such expertise would be best sought elsewhere.”

Nya wasn’t one for pessimism, but she felt a little hopeless again. Who knew where or when she could find another soul expert? Especially in these parts, with the locals being what they were? Any soul expert worth half a pond would no doubt steer as far away from this place as possible, after how many people that Raedric fellow hung.

Heh, perhaps she could march right into his court room and demand, “Would you _please_ stop hanging every soul expert that comes through here? I have a real crisis I need to solve!”

But then, he’d probably just hang her too. She shook her head. Not wise.

She needed to distract from these thoughts, and a curious bug nibbled at her brain about him anyway.

“Just how did you manage to cross those three drunks?” Nya asked frankly.

“I’m afraid that was a matter of misunderstandings and mistranslations.” He tented his fingers and looked away. (The sign of complete honesty, Nya thought.) “It doesn’t help that the people in these parts remember their war with Aedyre like it was yesterday.”

Nya made a wry grin and cocked her head. “You did tell that one man to go fuck his sister.”

“Ah. That.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his sleeves.

Aw, poor thing. She made him uncomfortable. But she had to know. That was not the consistent behavior of a man who wanted to avoid conflict, and she knew there was something (or a lot of somethings) he wasn’t telling her. With the right amount of prodding, would he say, or…?

“As I tried to tell them, they misheard me,” Aloth said, doubling down on the lie. “Happens all too easily after a few pints, and the accent doesn’t help.”

Accent? Are you kidding me? She thought. His accent and his voice were smooth as rain. It’d take a deaf cave troll grinding rocks together not to hear him right. This was one of the most blatant lies she’d heard all year. 

Nya half considered letting it drop, but her curiosity got the best of her. She had to know. 

“I heard the same thing,” she said, deciding to test her luck and his patience.

For just a moment, he looked as if he was about to say something else. His expression brightened with mischief, but before he could speak, he forced a tight smile, biting his lip so hard she expected to see blood. She mentally braced herself to block a sudden lunge or beat a hasty retreat if need be. Finally, his face relaxed, and he shook his head.

“I should speak more clearly next time. My apologies.”

Her heart sank. So, he really wasn’t going to tell her.

Still, she wasn’t going to give up that quickly.

“You don’t exactly look like a settler,” she said bluntly.

She should know. She’d traveled in a whole caravan of them.

A sly grin crept across his lips. “Begging your pardon, but neither do you.”

She returned his grin, and knew she liked him after all. This posh persona of his was capable of a little sly humor, even if it was false or he had another personality in there that liked to stir up trouble, was more than his weight in gold to her.

Though, seeing his eyes flash up and down her form made her suddenly aware of the Glanfathan tribal furs she wore. She felt her face heat up. Once again, she thought it was a wonder the rat-faced magistrate didn’t simply kill her on sight. Maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit. She must have looked like quite the Glanfathan wild orlan savage.

“Yet,” Aloth concluded, “circumstances can find a person in the strangest of places.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” she exclaimed.

When he didn’t respond, she dug little circles aimlessly in the dirt with her boot. She realized that questioning him any further would be hopeless, as he was so tight-lipped about himself that bear traps seemed easier to pry open, and she doubted someone as handsome and (relatively) well-groomed as him would want to travel with someone as scruffy and hairy as her. Pretty elves didn’t travel with scruffy orlans.

“I guess I should get going,” she said diffidently, half-hoping he’d stop her, but not expecting he would.

“As should I,” Aloth sighed, “given recent events. I’ve had enough of the watered wine and lumpy beds at the inn.” He wrinkled his nose. “They say even the owner tired of the place. Just up and left one day. It explains a lot about the upkeep.”

“Oh, great,” Nya said, “And I’ve got to stay there next.”

Aloth gave her a guardedly hopeful look. “Perhaps I could join you. I could use a change of scenery, and I find it’s better to travel in numbers.”

Nya’s heart melted. This was exactly what she wanted to hear. He’d said it before she’d even had to ask!

Cadpig snuffled suspiciously, and from his simple animal consciousness that she shared along with their soul, she remembered Aloth’s untrustworthy behavior. His polite façade broken up by the mischievous trouble-maker. He might act polite now, but turn on her soon.

She smiled, and shook her head. She liked him, even if he was lying to her. She had to know more about him! And if he ever turned on her… well, she’d seen how he fought. She could take him.

“So do I,” she grinned, “Let’s go, then.”

“Excellent,” Aloth grinned, “I shall follow you.”

her heart melted at his enthusiasm.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship.


End file.
